I didn't vote...but perhaps I should have

I have a confession to make. I did not vote in South Africa's municipal elections. But before you start stoning me, hear me out.

I feel a fair amount of guilt over this (yes, I know feeling guilty doesn't make it better. Keep reading, I'm getting there). I know that women fought to get the vote: literally fought. They starved themselves in prisons, went on marches, got themselves dragged behind horses and avoided censuses to show that they wanted to be counted in the most important way: to have a one person one vote policy. I am a woman, people struggled so that I could vote.

I also know that apathy is a serious problem. Many people sit and complain, or drink and complain or act irresponsibly and for the detriment of others, thinking that someone else will fix the problems. People should get actively involved in the problems plaguing their communities. The problems in the education systems, the corruption, the inefficient billing systems and the lack of real change for South Africa's poor are problems we all need to lend a hand in fixing. I read an article that said the number of poor white people has doubled since 1994 (to 3.6% of the white population) which is horrible. In 1994, 50% of the black population was poor. That statistic has not changed. I don't doubt we need our government to do a better job. I didn't decide not to vote because I am apathetic. I just think my voting isn't going to do that.

The problems I have detailed above are - undeniably - a fault of the almost fifty years of apartheid, and the ANC, who rules and has ruled most of South Africa since 1994 and is therefore responsible for the failures. Corruption is rife (as we have seen with endless Arms Deals and first-class tickets to Switzerland for "personal reasons" paid with taxpayer's money)and the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. The party who claims to cater to South Africa's poor clearly doesn't. Despite what Julius Malema may say about how much he donates to poor children.

So I should vote the other big alternative: the DA, right? ANC bad, DA good. That the DA had to be ordered to court before they would enclose toilets means that they don't seem to care about South Africa's poor either. This toilet saga was a big deal. And after seeing the pictures, I understand why. I thought "open toilets" meant a long drop rather than a flushing toilet. Turns out, an "open toilet" is flush toilet built in the back yard, practically springing out of the grass. As most households in poorer areas don't have walls, that means that to go and take a dump means doing so in full view of the neighbourhood. Way to go for fostering a sense of dignity. That the ANC built similar toilets doesn't make the DA any better: if anything, it links the two in disappointing ways.

And I've been to Cape Town. The DA may have had a multi-racial campaign (for which I applaud them) but in practise, Cape Town is the most racially divided, class-conscious place I have ever been to, and that includes Festival Mall in Benoni. Perhaps I shouldn't blame the attitude of the municipality on the DA, but South African author Ivan Vladislavic made a pertinent point:

"One of the things to be said about the Soccer City stadium is that it serves Soweto and is the home of soccer for many black supporters. It’s significant I think that this particular stadium has been upgraded and is being used for both the opening ceremony and the final game. The stadium in my area, Ellis Park, is traditionally a rugby stadium, although it has been home to one of the local soccer teams for the last few years.

By contrast, the Green Point stadium in Cape Town always felt like an unnecessary expense to me. Cape Town didn’t need a new stadium, certainly not in that part of the city, in my view. The money would have been better spent upgrading an existing stadium and building some sports facilities in areas more accessible to the poor, to the city’s black population".

Once again, a fail on the DA's part.

So why should I vote if I don't believe my vote will change the status quo, no matter who I vote for? I believe an initiative like LeadSA will make more of a difference to South Africa than its government(s). In other words, ordinary citizens doing their part in every way will have to make this country better, because governments and political parties are (at the end of the day) sullied by empty electioneering and simply, politics.

I did vote in 2009, not because I believed in any of the parties (although I believe I had a little more faith in Helen Zille back then) but because I was doing my part to ensure South Africa did not become a one party state. Perhaps something can also be said for voting for a smaller party with a really good candidate, but then - I reason - why vote for someone who has no chance whatsoever of representation? How am I helping effect change (if indeed I believe the candidate would effect change when voted in) if the candidate will be swiftly forgotten after they lose by a landslide?

Another argument for going to the polls was that if you didn't like any of the parties, one should spoil one's ballot instead of not voting as a sign of protest rather than apathy (which is apparently, what not voting means). I think spoiling my ballot will only make the IEC believe I made a mistake and will not really send any kind of message (as fellow blogger Mohamed Fayaz Khan so eloquently argues).

So I am not - by any means - apathetic about what happens in South Africa because I didn't vote. I read the news obsessively and do my best to find challenging, literary material for those I tutor. I care very deeply and wish to make my mark by being a brilliant educator. I don't believe I can make my mark and change South Africa for the better by voting for someone who will not make the necessary changes.

But I've been thinking. Short of joining the DA or ANC and becoming the political change I wish to see (not exactly in my career plans), how else can I contribute to the running of the country besides by voting, even if for the lesser of two evils? Also, why shouldn't I get involved in my community as well as vote. Surely (as long as you don't believe that your civic duty is done for the next five years once you have cast your vote), the one does not preclude the other.

Recently, I know of two examples when voting did make a difference. In Knysna, a community voted for an independent councillor who broke away from the ANC because she wanted to effect real change. Perhaps she will now be free to uplift her community, unhindered by dirty party politics. Perhaps there will be other councillors like her one day in other communities.

The second example was when I took a little time out to sign a petition on Facebook. I never believed those did any good either, until the petition I signed - the petition against corrective rape in South Africa - had so many signatures it reached the attention of government and the media. Sometimes something as simple as signing your name or (dare I say it) crossing a cross on a ballot can make a positive difference, or at least create awareness of a problem that may one day lead to its solution.

I do know also that voters' queues bring people from all walks of life together to cast their vote: one of the few times when South Africans unite. Perhaps for this reason alone, I admit I was mistaken and - despite my reservations - will go to vote next time.

Earthlings and the disappearence of bees

I've been writing blogs for weeks, although none of them have been published. The problem is that I can't figure out how I want to say what I want to say. I have seen some disturbing material over the last few weeks, have had some transcendent experiences and even started writing a descriptive short story involving a harpy.

Perhaps the problem is that the things I want to write about make me so angry I don't know how to articulate the point without baring my rows of shark teeth and scaring everyone away. This isn't even a good analogy (see my writers block???). I don't mind scaring people (in fact, I positively enjoy it. Everyone needs a good scare sometimes) it's that I don't want to sound like I'm whining because how does that change anything.

Take Earthlings. It is a documentary dubbed "the vegan turner" because the footage of slaughterhouses, puppy mills (you think I'm joking? Where do you think those pet shop puppies come from? Some nice lady with a big garden and a dog who has a whoops every few months?) and fur farms are so graphic they made me want to be physically sick. Joaquin Phoenix (the narrator of Earthlings) keeps intoning that if we had to kill our own animals we would all be vegetarian. This is a silly statement. Human beings are the ones who watch chickens and pigs in overcrowded stalls get cage madness and eat each other (and then we eat the cannibalistic animals: healthy living, folks) and who skin (and by that I mean pull off the skin and fur from the tail over the head, not shave it off like you would a sheep) live animals so that the viewer sees shots of a muscle and bone bloodied animal blinking.

Many people don't want to watch it because they don't want to become vegetarian, they don't want to be put off their meals. The problem is that the meal was off before they got to it. I mean, eat meat if you want to, but know where what you are putting in and on your body came from. I suppose it all boils down to what you can live with (or in this case, what pigs can live with, which is a lot. Most of them are still alive when they are boiled and then when their gristle is burnt off them with a blow torch. Farms sure ain't what they used to be like when babe became a sheep-pig).

When I write that, my hands go cold and I can hear a roaring behind my ears. I understand that some people don't think of animals as equal to people and that we are omnivores and should be eating meat. I even see that some people don't care that animals live in a constant state of excruciating pain from the time they are born because they are "just animals". I don't agree with it, but fine. Even on this most egocentric level however, we should not be eating animals killed in this condition because it is really bad for our health (never mind that of millions of sentient beings who live in terrible pain. Deep breath: take it from the anthropocentric perspective...) It's also(but we all know this right?) really bad from the planet. Too many cows=methane=bad?

We all know we're messing up the planet but I read of another disturbing trend. Bees are disappearing in entire hives (called Colony Collapse Disorder) because of a strange disease no one understands. Some have said it is owing to mobile phones, others say it is caused by insecticides. Either way, we've caused it and it will bring big problems. No more bees=no more pollination=very bad.

Albert Einstein said "If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live". I can only hope we can begin to fix this mess.

happiness

Today I feel almost ridiculously happy. Someone is having a post-graduation party just down the hall from me and I can hear the cheesy music practically making the floor vibrate. Apart from the fact that is so nice to hear someone having fun in this ghostly residence, Graduations make me happy. This week, I've seen women walking carefully over the uneven paving in shiny black high heels and a whole family - red cheeks from the cold - sitting on a low wall and laughing together: from grandpa and granny to grandchildren newly graduated. Everyone is dressed to the nines and looking breathlessly proud.

Then there is the fact I have just done my aerobics dvd. If you've read my ridiculous post, you'll understand why it makes me so thrilled. Even better, it was free, from Women's Health Magazine. I have so much respect for this publication: even if it is just because they published an article on intersexual people in one of their first issues. There is only so much one can read when it comes to health issues before you start guilt-tripping or the information starts being repeated, but if you want a magazine that gives you sensible health advice, delicious recipes (rocket, strawberry and goats cheese salad soaked in balsamic vinegar with salt and black pepper anyone?) and the occasional free aerobics dvd, then Women's Health is it.

I also had a really productive day. I am planning for my classes and am feeling really excited rather than overwhelmed, which is a very. good. thing. I have two classes of twenty-five students each, and I see them twice a week. There are no happy tutorial sheets prepared by the department. One just arrives and - in theory - answers questions that students have prepared. I envision myself making completed lesson plans and making this the most educational experience for them EVER. I need to channel some Zoe with the guru-ness that is Lumumba.

I did a teensy bit of thesis work too. I am now defrosting my fridge. I have never done this before. In the digs at Rhodes University, our fridge was almost warmer than room temperature. I think biologists would have found really interesting plant matter growing along the sides and in the darkest corners of the drawers...but this fridge froze over when I was away for a week. I ate cup of soup tonight because all the nourishing food I could eat is frozen into the freezer. This has still not dampened my mood. I feel like an adult now. Defrosting my own (well, it's sort of mine) fridge...

And I'm catching up with far-away friend Indra tonight.

Sometimes it's the little things...

the second-hand book

At Wits University, wedged between a parking lot and the wide green lawns is a great library that houses row upon row of Africana (i.e. books by Africans of various descriptions). It is called the William Cullen Library and was the first library to be built on campus. There are high ceilings and book-cases set against the walls that you have to climb up stairs to get to. It reminds me a little of the beautiful Port Elizabeth library with the statue of Queen Victoria that still holds her position in front of it (I can't say it welcomes you. Queen Victoria is very severe).

Back to William Cullen: there is a brightly-coloured painting spanning almost the whole of one wall that depicts a kind of magic-realist South Africa. Colonisers arrive in strange masks, and animals people the landscape, larger than the ships sailing in from the horizon. The trees are abundant with fruit, and the San and Khoi mingle with the settlers, who seem very settled already in this surreal landscape. There is night on one side of the painting and day on the other with the ocean surrounding the land on both sides. I hope many people studying at the long tables have happened to glance up and notice this singular artwork.

One of my (other) favourite things about this library is the bathroom. The Wartenweiler Library (which is now the main library) has chip-board cubicles and basins set so close to the cubicle doors that it's really difficult to move in there. It is also windowless and has that distinctively unpleasant closed-in public bathroom smell.

When I step into William Cullen, it is as though I have stepped into another world because it is so old. The fittings are all made of thick porcelain and are cleanly white and solid-looking. The doors are made of varnished wood and the windows let dappled sunlight into the airy room. There is even a a long, dark-wood table set into the wall with chairs in front of it. I feel like I should adjust my hair net and hat and perhaps touch up on my lipstick while having a good gossip with similarly attired friends, rather than adjust my backpack and twenty-first century jeans.

What really entrances me is that they have a small selection of books for sale: all R5. I am a compulsive book buyer, and I had sorted through them for weeks (finding Dame Edna Everage's Bedside Book amusing but not necessary) before I came across one that caught my eye and generated a tumult of conflicting thoughts. The first is called "Readings in South African English Prose", compiled by A.C. Partridge of the University of Pretoria and it was published by Van Schaik in 1941. It is a first-edition and looks impeccable, but more importantly, it was a present: "To dear Dad Love from Marj, Xmas 1944".

Second-hand books with inscriptions, (particularly old-fashioned, spidery ones in that good-quality black ink) make the cockles of my heart warm (I've been reading Dickens recently, can you tell?). The pages are thick and yellowing, and the preface is cringingly full of terms like "native mind" and phrases like "For whilst it is no doubt true that all good literature is universal". Nevertheless, it was someone believing in the literature of the country enough to compile a book about it. All the writers are white (Sol Plaaitjie was clearly not English enough)but there are a host of names I had never heard before along with other more familiar ones. Olive Schreiner, C. Louis Leipoldt, Lady Anne Barnard, Thomas Pringle and Kingsley Fairbridge among others are included.

The inscription was what decided me to buy it: "To South Africa, and all its people of both races, this book is dedicated, in the hope that enlightened co-operation may soon be at hand".

An academic from Pretoria (never a city with a reputation for housing liberals) produced a book - in 1941 - with an inscription like that. It made me really excited and yet at the same time made me a feel desperately sad for wasted potential. Just seven years later, all those hopes were dashed for almost fifty years with the introduction of institutionalised apartheid. I wondered if A.C. Partridge had lived to see the end of apartheid, and what he was doing so that his hopes about "enlightened co-operation" may be realised.

Then, I thought a little more and read a little more into the book. He says "both races". Back then, the all-inclusive term "black" had not come into usage to describe everyone who was not white. So, there are then several races in South Africa. Why does he say "both"? I then realised (in this collection of "South African English" prose that proves the English are as South African as their Boer counterparts) that there are two white races. Is he talking about less enmity among whites in a new white super-era? I mean there is a section in this book titled "Native Sketches". But the ANC was originally titled "South African Native National Congress", so in the past, even black people called themselves "natives". In what year did this term become questionable? Have I purchased a questionable book?

And then I relaxed and gave myself a mental slap on the wrist. I was reminded of my trip to the Pitt Rivers Museum in Oxford when I confronted the curator with the fact that the labels on the anthropological artefacts were completely outdated, "Native Rhodesian Drum" for example. She smiled patiently and explained to me that the labels (made by the curators or explorers at the time the object was found) are historical and anthropological objects in themselves. They reflect a part of history that should not be forgotten.

Being politically correct can lead to missed opportunities for knowledge and a more complete understanding of the subtlties of the past. I think I will learn as much by reading the prejudices and baby steps towards understanding of the compiler as I will about the decades of South African English engagement that have been compiled. Perhaps I will even breathe in something of the spirit of the man who received it as a present in 1944. And I could never get such an experience from between the matt-finish covers of a new book from the morally fortified shelves of a new bookshop.

Nor could I buy it for R5. Reading (and buying) second-hand books really is an affordable education.

the bus: waiting

Seven hours. It's the amount of time I (and my friend Gwynlyn along with a few other Rhodents, i.e. Rhodes Students) spent on a pavement on the shady side of Grahamstown, waiting for our first bus in first year. We had packed everything in our wheeled suitcases, Gwynlyn had been told to buy enough sweets to feed an army by the Livingston (her res) girls so thus arrayed, and gigglingly happy to be going home and having an adventure, we walked down high street to the bus. We met a few other happy first years also waiting for the bus and we all sat on the pavement and got started on our bus food (and on Gwynlyn's bus food which became our treasure trove in the hours to come).

7.30pm (the departure time) came and went, and my paranoid mother got very worried about her poor darling sitting down on the street opposite the Frontier Hotel in all its decayed, seedy glory. The street is also frequented by truckers, buses, drunks from "The Copper Kettle" (the dodgiest bar in Grahamstown) and street kids who try their luck for some money every now and again. She phoned every hour to see what had happened, and it had broken down in Port Elizabeth. We were told it would be coming in the next hour every time so - not wanting to be left behind - we stayed on that pavement, wrapped ourselves in blankets, ate yet more food and chatted about absolutely everything. When the bus eventually did arrive, it was close on 1.30 am.

Translux eventually shortened their arrival time over the years. The next time I caught a bus it was only five hours late. I have also had to wait three hours, two hours...when it got down to one hour I was really impressed. These days, the Translux bus comes exactly on time and they even have a kind of bus host or hostess like they do on Greyhound, rather than leaving the eccentric range of driving teams (there are always two drivers on the bus for those who don't know) who man the buses to handle the frequently irate and edgy passengers.

Waiting in small towns is always interesting because there is never a station, just a landmark that frequently ceases to exist. So in Grahamstown, you are told you have to catch the bus at the "Conference Centre" (which is actually the worn-down Frontier Hotel), and in Port Shepstone, you have to catch the bus at the "Spur" which closed down and has been half-way demolished for the past two years. I was fascinated the first time I took a bus from a city (Greenacres Mall in Port Elizabeth) and there was a little room with chairs. Even more fascinating is the bigger cities where they weigh your suitcases before you get on. I really appreciate travelling by bus because you can have super-heavy suitcases and you never have to pay extra. Useful knowledge for avid readers who like to take an extra few books "just in case" and come back with a few more they managed to find wherever they were visiting (I don't know why I'm even talking in the third person. The person who carries and then acquires an additional library wherever she goes is me).

Park Station was my most pleasant surprise. I was nervous because one always hears terrible stories about that side of Johannesburg. But the scariest person there was a gaunt white man wearing baggies and slops (in the middle of town!) and smoking a cigerette ominously. The scariest bus was Roadlink, which we could hear squealing from miles away as it pulled into the station. It was leaning to one side. This was several months after they were pulled off the road and then allowed back on again after all the accidents. Hmmm... I caught the bus at 8pm, and the station was clean, quiet and relatively empty. Everything worked really efficiently and it felt a little like an airport. It is when you get outside to where the buses stop that it feels like chaos. There are lanes stretching almost as far as my eye can see and you have to find where your bus is when you walk out. There is a thin, coloured woman with a loud, activist's voice who gets on every bus before it leaves with shiny pamplets and AIDS ribbons who makes requests for donations for the shelter she is involved in.

Most of the time (these days) I take the bus from Pretoria station. The first time I caught the bus there, I had to catch a cab and then wait a few hours by myself for the bus to arrive. My friend at TopCD (a Venda prankster called Shevon who is contually astonished by the fact that I am a white person who doesn't hate black people. Pretoria: it'll do that to you). She looked at me and said, "Ooh, Pretoria Station is not a nice place for a little white girl like you".

When I got out of the cab, I was clutching all my possessions to me and looking as forbidding and streetwise as I could. Actually, Pretoria Station is like a particularly fascinating market. For a start, it is outdoors with a few extended rooves, and some benches. You can wait for the bus whilst savouring the sun on your face. There are hawkers lined up waiting for buses to take them back to Zimbabwe or Zambia with the largest hessian bags you have ever seen filled with necessities to take home. There are chip and sweet sellers who sell those ones that - urban legend has it - make your intestines expand they are so unhealthy. Enterprising teenagers and men in the early twenties have shopping-trolley like vehicles on which they load bags to help over-burdened passengers. I can perch myself on my suitcase and lose myself in the book I have brought along, conscious of the chatty, industrious movement of people bustling around me.

My favourite moment however is always the moment when the bus has arrivied and I can get on. Soon - I know - familiar landscapes will be flashing past me and I will be on a journey that will contain both the solid sense of the ground I cover from place to place that is so sadly absent on a plane flight and sights of the vastly different environments we travel through. The adventure will begin.

the bus: seat mates

Next time you are looking for an interesting place to go, get on a bus. It doesn't matter where you are going or which bus service you use, it is the bus trip itself that is so interesting. I travel on the Wits bus sometimes, and it is usually crowded. It was unsurprising that today there was only standing room for me. As the bus took off (like a space shuttle! I wish...) I happened to look down at an Indian girl typing an sms. She was a little round, but prettily so, with long dark hair falling thickly over her shoulders and dull-gold eyeshadow accentuating the slanting shape of her eyes. What caught me however was her rapidly changing facial expressions as she typed the sms. Her face was flirting. She gave little half-smiles and her lips formed words sometimes. Her fingers moved rapidly across the keys, and the clear pleasure at saying something clever and attractive and a little naughty was so plainly written on her face I couldn't help but be fascinated by this intensely personal exchange that was happening - strictly speaking - with the cellphone clutched between her fingers. People - for me - are always interesting, even if I never exchange a word with them. Admittedly, seat mates are not always pleasantly interesting. I sat next to a man once who carefully decanted brandy and coke into one glass after another as he steadily became more talkative and intrusive. Even in sleep he intruded on my space as his body sprawled outwards onto my seat, pushing me into the aisle. I spent the night fitfully, eventually pushing his partly comatose form back onto his side. The most important etiquette on a long bus trip is to give the person next to you their space. Unless it is impossible, as happened on a Cityliner bus trip I was on once during the Translux strike. The seats were so small and the bus so packed that the black woman sitting on the aisle seat had to strap herself into keep from falling off. It was so uncomfortable, we could do little more than dose, and woke frequently in the night to have long conversations I don't remember now. Not all intrusions are an affront. A blonde, handsome teenager sat next to me on his first bus trip and after asking me what grade I was in (not the best start) turned out to be really friendly and a biltong-maker. After a long chat (and an attempt to buy me some food from one of the garage stops) he said he was going to sleep and promptly settled himself on my shoulder. He clearly had no idea one doesn't sleep on strangers' shoulders in buses. I felt strangely protective of this naive boy who happily placed his sleep (such a vulnerable activity in a public space) in my hands. Foreigners (I've discovered) love to act with chivalry (or something) and often buy me food despite my numerous and vehement protestations. A sweet, silent Mozambican returned from the garage once with a coke for me without us having exchanged more than a few sentences. Another foreigner (I think he was Nigerian) bought me a jar of Lays Stax and offered me a job working in one of his uncle's clothing shops after a lengthy conversation about the nature of business in South Africa. There was another girl - friendly and self-assured - who spent most of the bus trip telling me how wonderful being a Jehovah's Witness was, and probably trying to convert me. We got on so well (chatting over her well-thumbed bible) that we even exchanged numbers but neither of us ever kept in touch. Some passengers want your number for no good reason. There was a large black man from Durban who I spotted talking to the only other white girl on the bus when we stopped for a midnight break at a garage. She left, and he then started talking to me. Quite early on in the conversation he asked for my number because he said he wanted to be my friend. I managed to convince him that although he looked like a friendly person, I am not in the habit of giving out my number. He finally gave a great laugh and said that he would ask me again when he got off the bus in Durban. I half expected him to follow through, but thankfully he left without a murmur in my direction at Durban Station. There was also an over-confident, thin white boy from Grahamstown who tried to get my number and get me to commit to going out with him after we got there. His pick-up line logic needed a little work. He began by telling me that he believed beauty was on the inside (no really, he did believe it). Only a little later (after he discovered I have a boyfriend) he said sadly, "All the pretty girls are always taken". I was flattered but almost disappointed at the ease with which his lines were shown up. I've had to entertain a little red-headed eleven-year old (thank-goodness I've seen the Twilight movies or I would have been in trouble) for a whole day while her mother kept her satisfied with one snack after another packed with refined sugar; I listened to a mentally slow white racist rant halfway from Maritzburg; and listened to another white, sporty teenager tell us (a group of us sitting near the front of the bus) her entire life story, including the intimate details of her mother and sister's sex lives. Perhaps the most interesting conversation happened in the throes of Joburg traffic. I was talking to a Nigerian Cage Fighter about religion and anger management. He was suffering the most excruciating head pains from being on the bus for too long, and I was trying to keep him distracted by chatting. He said that he was a religious man, but also a hard-core cage fighter, and that he had issues with road rage. He said he actually got so far as to get out of his car once to remonstrate with someone but stopped himself before it was too late as he said he didn't want to cause any damage. Towards the end of our conversation, he smiled at me and said I was a good person. Sometimes truth really is stranger (and more fun) than fiction. P.S.- for some reason, my "enter" button refuses on register on the Wits server. Apologies for the whack layout.

promotheus (self-inflicted)

Emotion spills, gushes and congeals in corners, in clumps like tumours. I could - instead of my usual constructed arguments and careful blend of personal and social anecdote - throw out words like blood spatters, emptying out my too-painful entrails so that I would no longer need to bear the weight of them moving in my breast. They would make chaotic violent spatters, pulpy and odorous, sticky to the touch deeply and almost ridiculously red. How can I tell where one emotion begins and my thoughts end? Perhaps I will pull too much out by mistake, perhaps cause an explosion. My central skeleton would shatter, sharp fragments of bone thrown outwards to embed themselves in the page, the soft tissue of my lungs indistinguishable from the bloody mass. I would be left not only free of the pain but unable to breathe, a ghost unaware of the terrible, fibrous hole between the breastplate and the pelvis.

But by the time the words are read they would be the mundane colour of rust, dried out and flaking off. Crawling creatures in need of such vital sustenance will have consumed the more substantial clots, only a sour smell and something metaphorically insidious and intangible would remain.

I cannot feel whether it would be a relief to be rid it (how can it be qualified) or whether my internal organs would grow back in the night, excruciating and raw, ready to be torn out and mounted once again for display.